Keeping Current With Kat, Again

Have you people any idea at all how hard it is to resist making the C in current into a K? Any at all? No, obviously not. Fools. Fools, I tell you. Absolute utter fools.

Oh, right, blog to do. Well, you'll be happy to know that I've finished Johnathan Strange and Mr. Norrel, and so have, of course, started a fic of it. It's a reflex by now. This one is the tale of Childermass, who is servant to the magician Norrel, and of his love, who is basically an OC but does get one mention in the novel. Here's what I've done so far on that one. Dinna worry about the length, 'tis quite short.

“Don’t give me ‘I do what I please,’ John Childermass! You’re coming back, make no mistake of that. And when you do, it will be to right here, directly. With no detours or suchlike. Do you understand?”

He simply looked at her for a moment, at her, glaring at him with those little hazel eyes of hers, standing up in that full mammoth stature with her beautiful rose petal mouth driven into a thin little hard line. Then he laughed, a quick, almost painful laugh, blinked twice, tipped his hat, bowed, and walked away.

The dust settled slowly into his deep, deliberate footprints on the town road. The lady watched as he walked away. There were times when she thought her feet would burst off of her sturdy ankles and run after him, onto whatever strange paths a man like Childermass tread, and away from this hellishly routine existence of her housewifery.

His life must be like a complex dance, she thought pensively, but my life is like a plodding walk. Over and over, one plodding step after another.

End of story. So far.

And that's IT thus far. I just started it, as in, just started it. Indeed. I finished the Jack's Lament story, which is a song fic about Erik after Christine and Raoul leave the lair, set to Jack's Lament from Nightmare Before Christmas, and it turned out quite well. The title is. . .er. . .the title is. . .that's the only problem. It's not titled yet. But it's good. I'll post it soon. Enough. It's quite abstract and a little odd, but I really did enjoy writing it and it gave Erik a good ending. It's almost as good as Flicker. Maybe even as good. And I generally consider Flicker to be the best thing I've written Phantom wise.

I also was thinking about how different characters from different stories would react to Erik, what he would have to teach them, and what they would have to teach him, both emotionally and practically. So I'm doing something eccentric, big surprise, and doing a fantasy story. In this tale, the Powers that Be have decided Erik needs an emotional and spiritual lesson, so they send different people to him, all of which have something to teach him. And of course, these people are being educated too, and also have something to learn. . .on the whole, very philosophical and cross-overish. If there are any characters anyone would like to request, please, do so. I've already got Mark of Rent, Samwise or another hobbit from LotR, Hamlet of Hamlet, Puck from Midsummer, and various others. Please, requests? Luke Skywalker, or Hahn Solo? Maybe Anakin? (Pondreth.)

I've discovered a new manga. Dear God, that makes me absurdly happy. It's titled "Paradise Kiss," and before you have a fit like certain people did, allow me to explain that it is not what the title appears to imply. Shudder. It's the tale of a group of Bohemian type kids who manage a fledgling clothing label. George is their eccentric, egotistical, cynical designer. And he has blue hair. Always a good thing. Oh, and just as a side note, he's bi. Arashi is an apparently British gutter punk with extremely. . .punky. . .character design and a mouth on him that really ought to be washed. His hair is spiked and he wears safety pins as piercings. With chains dangling from them. Fun. Miwako is Arashi's girlfriend, tiny for her age. Her hair is bright pink and falls in ringlets. She dresses like a pixie. And finally, Isabella, the resident transvestite, who dresses like she is from the nineteenth century. The only normal one is Yukari, George's girlfriend and their model, who is a notorious student overachiever and really needs to get out more. Chaos and interesting clothes ensue. Look at the illustrations, look at the way I dress, and you'll begin to see the rhyme and reason to my style. Well, maybe the rhyme. There is no reason.

Yet another new story has also begun. This one is called When Persians Get Hiccups.

Nadir and Ben: It's called WHAT??!

Kat: Are you going to get all sensitive about this because I dubbed you the Persian last blog, Ben? Nadir, that I can understand.

Ben: Er. Well. Yes!

Kat: Too bad.

Max: Ha, glad I'm not the Persian.

Ben: You should talk, you're the ballet mistress.

Meg: (Bounces by) Maman! (Hugs Max.)

Kat: Ah, so that's who he should date. I knew it was someone. Other than someone else.

Nadir: Er, yes, wouldn't it have to be?

Ben: That made sense to me.

Nadir: Probably why it doesn't make sense to me.

Max: Mmmph. (A bit squashed.)

Kat: Oh dear. Ah, well. Here's the beginning to When Persians Get Hiccups.

Nadir Khan smacked the wall of Erik’s lair in frustration. “Erik, I tell you, I give up. How many chorus girls will there be? Really, if it’s not the innocent blonde one it’s the other genius singer one with the deformity of her own, or the blind one. Or the gypsy. Or Christine’s daughter or relative in some way, shape, or form. I’m tired of it. This makes…fifty rivals I’ve had to escort here in the past week! And most of them just as sniveling as He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.”

They were arguing, as per usual. How these two were friends when all they ever seemed to do was fight about one thing or another was hard to tell, and when one had almost killed the other at least once, but somehow they were. Only this time they were arguing about the recent influx of Mary Sues Erik had been obligated to fall for.

“Come, come, daroga,” Erik laughed derisively, not looking up from his organ. “You can’t tell me they were all as bad as the fop?”

“Yes, I can.”

“How so?”

“One of them was named Phillipe. But he wasn’t the fop’s brother.”

“Kopit and Yeston again?”

“You guessed.”

Erik went back to his Don Juan. Nadir winced as the music flowed upleasantly over him. “I wish you wouldn’t do that.” Erik went into a prolonged rant about how Don Juan was his underappreciated masterpiece. Nadir didn’t listen. As the daroga of Manderzan, who was the world’s most neglected personage, he thought gloomily, he should know a thing or too about being underappreciated. He spent a few moments feeling sorry for himself and waiting for Erik to shut up.

Erik did not shut up. And he was starting in on the third person. This could not bode well. He’d probably go on for hours by now. Nadir groaned unhappily. If he’d been Jewish, or if he’d spoke Yiddish, he would have said, “Oy.” But not being Jewish and not speaking Yiddish, he didn’t.

Instead he glanced over at a table of potions Erik appeared to have been concocting. He checked to see if Erik was stil ranting. He was. Nadir picked up a bottle and examined it. It was a pearly white, with pleasant hints of gold running through it. It looked quite fragile, so he handled it gingerly as he popped off the cork and sniffed deeply.

The Persian’s head bobbed for a moment and fell onto his chest. Laudanum, he thought, and began a desperate search for something to wake himself up. He hit upon a large red bottle in the shape of a…what was it? It appeared to be a very tight pair of men’s pants. He shrugged and opened the bottle, taking a large whiff.
“Paaaast the point of nooooo return!” Sang someone in a baritone. Nadir hastily clapped the lid back on. “What on earth…” he muttered. “That was dreadful. But it woke me up.”

Shivering a little from the trauma, he toyed with a few bottles, but the labels looked too dangerous to open. Siren’s Song, bottled, do not use except in extreme circumstances and must be properly diluted, for example, or Slash Lotion, not for liberal use, do not give to any close acquaintance/pony tailed rival of the same gender. And some of the labels looked as if Erik had been hanging out with Shakespeare’s characters and that Snape fellow again. One bottle announced itself to be Bubbles, bubbles, toil, and stress, while another proudly proclaimed, Veritaserum, trusted by the best of Hogwarts teachers.

“Creepy fellow…” Nadir muttered. “Severus, now that name just isn’t normal.” He appeared to be lost on the fact that he himself was named Nadir, which isn’t even really Persian, but the English word for emotional abyss. “And he looks like Alan Rickman, which I find unsettling,” he remarked to the bottle of bubbles, bubbles, toil, and stress.

Unfortunately, the bottled Gerry’s Point of No Return had taken effect, and Nadir fell to the ground in a very unmanly swoon. Erik looked up, mildly interested. “Oh. Er, daroga, are you all right? Have you been playing with scorpions again?”

End of story. So far.

The scorpions line is an allusion to Susan Kay's Phantom, in which Nadir opens a box with a scorpion in it that Erik was keeping for research. I really hate my keyboard. For some reason it's gotten into its demonic little brain that the up arrow key means H, ever since I spilled boba tea on it. Which is my fault, but I'm in denial. And happy with it.

I made some earrings. Out of gold hoops and old hairbands. Trust me, Max and Ben, you'll love 'em. Just don't pull them. They're only so stretchy, and when they're fully extended each one is about a foot long.

No, I am not exaggerating.

Oh yes! My dear, dear sister, Allie, who was formerly known as Kizzy but now likes Allie, has a blog! Visit her at www.americanoutcasts.blogspot.com and enjoy. She has the title of official Phantom's Cat, or in other words, Ayesha. Or Allie Ayesha, as I tend to call her.

I remain, gentlemen, your faithful and obedient servant,

J.G.